


Liquid Courage

by novelized



Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018) Actor RPF
Genre: Drunken Shenanigans, M/M, Oscars Night
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-21
Updated: 2019-03-21
Packaged: 2019-11-26 19:40:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18184877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/novelized/pseuds/novelized
Summary: Two hours ago they’d started drinking. Because alcohol was free-flowing at the Oscars after-parties, because the music was good and Ben always needed one or two or five to really loosen up. Because they were together. Because they deserved it.





	Liquid Courage

It’s been a strange night.

Four hours ago they were at the Oscars, watching their boy take the gold and glory, rubbing elbows with people Ben had only _dreamed_ of rubbing elbows with as a kid. Feeling like an entire life’s worth of hard work had led them there. And trying, trying, trying, not to think of it as the end.

Three hours ago they were at 7-Eleven, loading up on snacks and filming it, of course, because Joe has a thing about Instagram that never fails to make Ben laugh. Needing some sort of normalcy, something to root themselves back to the real world. Because it’d be easy to top out at this. Because he’s too young to have peaked.

Two hours ago they’d started drinking. For all of the above reasons, and because alcohol was free-flowing at the after-parties, because the music was good and Ben always needed one or two or five to really loosen up. Because they were together. Because they deserved it. 

One hour ago he’d done twin tequila shots with Joe, licking a line of salt straight from the back of Joe’s hand. He doesn’t have a because for that one. 

And now. Now they’re here.

Ben is drunk. He knows he’s drunk because his lips are tingling and the hotel lobby’s gone fuzzy, like when he’d tried on Gwil’s glasses on the plane to LA just to see what it was like. As far as health goes, Ben is a perfect specimen. His eyesight is impeccable. He’d never even gotten the chickenpox.

A woman in the elevator gives him a strange look, and he realizes he’s just told her about not getting chickenpox out loud. That’s another reason he knows he’s drunk. He tends to get a little overshare-y. Joe laughs against his shoulder. Ben’s pretty certain he’s sloshed too.

They’d outlasted Gwil, who’d told them repeatedly how much he loved them as they’d helped him into a car, all twelve gangly feet of him; Gwil always was a sentimental drunk. They had not outlasted Rami, who’d been bouncing around the party like a pinball, who’d gone all shiny-eyed and excitable like he always did when he’d had a few too many. He could go on for hours that way.

They stop at the eighth floor. Ben and Joe have conjoining rooms, but he has no idea which ones they are, so he lets Joe lead the way. “I dunno how this happened,” Ben tells him, because his face is warm and the floor’s gone slightly wobbly. “I’m English, for fuck’s sake. I can hold my liquor.” 

“Probably because all you’ve eaten today is convenience store junk.” Joe studies the doors in the hallway as they pass. He stares at the numbers outside 812 for a full minute before he nods, starts digging in his pockets for the room key. He drops half a dozen empty snack wrappers in the process. “What kind of event doesn’t serve dinner, is all I’m saying. You’re the biggest night in Hollywood but you can’t even spring for some goddamn finger foods?”

“Maybe they don’t think it’s classy to stuff your face while Julia Roberts is up there… you know, being Julia Roberts and all.”

Joe gets the door open, by some miracle, but stops and points a finger in Ben’s face. “Speak for yourself, Benjamin, I’m a very classy eater.”

“I watched you spill a hotdog down your front once, mate. A hotdog. Who the hell spills a hotdog?”

“It was a very _large_ hotdog,” Joe says defensively, but Ben ignores him and passes through to the bedroom suite. He has no idea whose room they’re in, but he doesn’t care. There’s an enormous TV hung on the wall, and a full-length mirror, and two queen beds that beckon him like a siren. He crawls on top of the nearest one, because he’s not positive he can make it all the way to the one farther away.

Joe flops down right beside him with an _oof_. He must’ve had a similar recognition.

Ben props his head up on his fist. They’re both still fully-dressed, but Joe’s bowtie is hanging lopsided around his neck. He reaches out his free hand and tugs at its strings. “Hey, is it just me... or are we in the cast of an Academy Award winning film?”

“Not just you,” Joe confirms seriously. “Ben, we are very, very famous now. This is probably the last night of peace we’ll ever have.”

“Well, fuck. How should we spend it?”

Joe wiggles his eyebrows at him.

“No,” Ben says.

“Oh, come on.”

“ _No_ ,” Ben says, more firmly.

“One video. Just one more.”

He’s already grappling for his mobile, so Ben slaps at his hands. Amazingly, it works. One well-aimed smack and it goes flying through the air, lands with a soft thud on the carpet below. “If the floor weren’t on the ceiling right now,” Joe says, “I swear to God I’d film this abuse and put it online for the world to see.” 

“You could try. Only I think any jury in the world would watch and say it’s very much deserved.” Ben settles back down on the mattress, pillows his head with one arm. Frowns a little. “Joe. Is this pathetic, d’you think?”

“What, that we’re drunk?”

“That we’re drunk, alone, on Oscars night.”

Joe takes his time to consider. “No…” he says slowly. “I don’t think so. Gwil and Allen’re passed out. Rami’s drunk too, but he’s being drunk in front of people, and he’s gonna have to live with _that_ tomorrow. I’d rather be drunk, alone, with you.”

Ben doesn’t say anything. His mouth suddenly feels dry, either because of the alcohol or because — because Joe’s not alone in that. There were hundreds of famous people at that party. Girls, stunning girls, giving them the sort of double glances he’d used to obsess over, girls who’d’ve come back with them in a heartbeat. And yet. He’s pretty sure he’d rather be drunk, in this hotel room, with Joe, too.

Then Joe chuckles.

“That was an oxymoron,” he says, in his drunk-philosophical sort of way.

Ben looks at Joe with raised eyebrows.

“Alone,” Joe explains, and then he reaches over and places his hand flat against Ben’s sternum, “with you.”

“You’re an idiot,” Ben says, but means it lovingly.

Joe’s fingertips rub a slow circle into his shirt, but idly, like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it. “I’m an oxy-idiot,” he agrees. “But I’m preeetty sure you like me anyway.”

“Prove it.”

All at once, Joe pulls away from Ben’s chest. Ben nearly complains about the loss, but stops himself just in time — and then he’s struck with a much different sensation, which is _Joe unexpectedly shoving his entire hand into Ben’s pocket._ The pants he’d chosen for the big night were form-fitting, particularly around the hips, and Joe might’ve been cupping his thighs, for as little material there was between them. “Joe,” Ben says, “what the bloody hell —” but a second later Joe’s hand reemerges, Ben’s iPhone in his grasp. He presses the home button and holds it up for Ben to see.

His background is a picture of them, the two of them, on set: Joe in full costume, all permed hair and patterned shirt, and Ben in his street clothes, just rolled out of bed. The contrast between them had made Ben cry with laughter. He hadn’t changed it since.

Joe looks at him smugly. “The defense rests its case.”

“Just a funny picture, is all,” Ben says, but Joe rolls his eyes and tosses the mobile back on the mattress.

“You’re so far in denial there’s a river in Egypt — or, wait, how’s it go? There’s an Egyptian river called denial and you’re — oh, whatever, you know what I mean.” He sits up, suddenly. “I gotta go to the bathroom,” he announces, and then climbs down from the bed, holding onto the mattress for support. He gives Ben a thumbs up when he manages to stay on his feet. “If I get lost along the way, tell Rami and Gwil I loved them dearly, but not nearly as much as I loved you.”

Ben watches him leave the room in an exasperated sort of way, except that he can’t ever actually be exasperated with Joe. It’s incredibly annoying, liking him that much. 

The fact that he’s still suited up has become increasingly uncomfortable, however, so he decides to take advantage of having the room to himself and shrugs out of his jacket, unknots and tosses his bowtie aside, clumsily unbuttons his shirt. Under the influence of alcohol, everything takes twice as long. His shirt’s hanging open, and Ben’s just stepping out of his pants, when Joe reenters the room.

“Hey, I don’t think I — oh,” Joe says, stopping short in the doorway.

Ben wasn’t the only one who’d decided to change; Joe’s down to his boxers and a cotton white tshirt, but the look on his face is weird. And it’s weird that it’s weird, because Joe has seen him in various states of undress dozens and dozens of times, but it is. Weird. Which makes Ben feel weird. “What?” he says, wondering if he’s somehow even drunker than he’d realized.

Joe’s quiet a moment, and then he says: “This is my room.” He holds up a toothbrush, like it’s irrefutable evidence. 

“Oh.” Ben is suddenly very aware that all of his belongings are in the room next door. He doesn’t know what his plan was here. “Uh. D’you want me to leave?”

Joe’s eyes travel over his face, a moment, and then dip down to his chest. He swallows, brings his gaze back up, and shakes his head. “No,” he says.

Ben rubs the back of his neck with one hand. “Okay.”

“Okay?” Joe repeats, and Ben thinks he knows what Joe’s asking, but it’s — not a question he’s ever asked before.

“Okay,” Ben says again.

Joe looks relieved. He moves across the room — and he seems more steady, now, more sure — and joins Ben at the foot of the bed. He reaches out, grabs hold of Ben’s shirt, gives it a little tug. “Jesus, Ben,” he says, and his gaze lingers longer this time. 

“Shut up,” Ben laughs. “You’re such a —” but he’s cut off by Joe’s hand, coming to rest against his stomach, experimental, almost, his fingers ghosting under the fabric of Ben’s loosely hanging shirt. Ben’s tongue feels like it’s too big for his mouth. “Joe, what —”

Joe’s eyebrows furrow, like he’s not exactly positive what’s happening, either. “Can I just —” he says, and his fingertips trace down over Ben’s abs, slow and feather-soft. Ben watches their descent in silence, and when Joe’s hands come to rest at his hips, he looks Ben in the face. His expression is determined, sincere. Questioning. And more, so many more, and Ben can read them all, because he’s Joe, and he knows Joe. Better than he knows almost anyone. Sometimes, he thinks, better than he knows himself.

“Should I stop?” Joe asks, and Ben finds himself shaking his head before he’s even had time to process.

“Is this because you’re drunk?” he does manage to ask, thickly, which makes Joe laugh.

“Yes,” Joe says, and gives him a pointed shove towards the bed. “But also — no?”

Ben lets himself be pushed down, legs spread apart over the corner of the mattress. Joe steps into that space almost immediately, and they’re so _close_ , and not laughing, and from this angle Joe’s towering over Ben, and he uses the height advantage to rake his hands through Ben’s hair, gives it a short but sharp tug, and then his hands move on downwards, over his ears, his neck, his shoulders. His thumbs dig into the skin at his collarbones. Ben tries to suppress a shiver, but fails. He has never seen this side of Joe before. It’s strange how much he likes it.

Joe grins at him. “We should probably make out, right?” 

“We should probably not,” Ben says, sensibly. Making out with your best mate was a terrible idea. Doing it after a night of drinking was even worse. Joe opens his mouth to argue, but Ben grabs him by the wrists and yanks him in for a heated, bruising kiss.

He hadn’t planned this. This was not a premeditated action. But, when Joe climbs into his lap to deepen the kiss, when he presses against him and bites down on Ben’s lower lip, it sort of feels like one.

Ben doesn’t spend a lot of time kissing other guys, ordinarily, but then — Joe is not ordinary. He never has been. He kisses him like it’s a natural progression, like they’ve been building up to this for weeks, maybe, or months, or since the first time they met and had the sort of instant chemistry he’d spent a lifetime chasing with anyone else. Joe kisses him again, and again, and then Ben’s rucking up Joe’s shirt in the back, wanting to feel skin, wanting to get rid of every barrier between them, wanting more.

He doesn’t even know what _more_ entails. But he knows he wants it.

“I think,” Joe says quietly, tipping his forehead against Ben’s shoulder, his eyes down, “these should come off.” His fingers dip under the waistband of Ben’s boxer briefs, and Ben swallows hard. “But,” Joe adds, and he twists his other hand in the hem of Ben’s shirt, still hanging open, “ _this_ should stay on.” 

“Is that a thing for you?” Ben asks, relieved to hear that he at least sounds slightly normal.

Joe looks at him meaningfully. “It is now.”

There is something to be said about stripping in front of someone you’re comfortable with. Ben doesn’t have to try to make it sexy. He just wants them off, _now_ , and Joe has to shift onto his knees to give Ben enough room, but still helps out where he can, and when they’re kicked across the room Ben moves on to Joe’s shirt, makes quick work of it, and they’ve spent too long not kissing, and before it’s even dropped to the floor he’s capturing Joe’s lips in another kiss, this one slower, deeper, Ben’s hand curled around Joe’s neck.

Joe reaches between them and wraps a hand around Ben, and the angle’s all wrong but it feels so _right_ , and he lets out a groan that he couldn’t have swallowed if he tried. 

“Know what I just realized?” Joe asks, twisting his wrist in a way that makes Ben’s hips jerk up against him.

“That you never stop talking?” Ben says breathlessly, but Joe ignores him.

He points a finger at Ben’s chest, says, “B,” then gestures towards himself. “...J.”

“BJ,” Ben repeats, in a disbelieving sort of way.

Joe laughs and pushes Ben back on the mattress, all the way reclined. “BJ,” he confirms, and he presses a kiss against Ben’s chest, a trail of kisses, leading downwards, and Ben’s skin is on fire in the best possible way, and he digs the heels of his hands into his eyes and thinks that if all it took was a couple of tequila shots to get here, then they should’ve started drinking heavily so much sooner.

***

Ben wakes up with a pounding headache behind his temples, but he’s also warm and comfortable and he feels strangely sated. It takes him a minute to remember why — but then, all at once, he does. He rubs blearily at his eyes, looks to the side, and lets out a quiet sort of groan. Joe’s fast asleep on the pillow beside him, his arm thrown haphazardly across Ben’s chest, his hair sticking up in every direction. Ben tries to move his arm away, gingerly, but at the slightest touch Joe stirs, blinks slowly: first at Ben, and then under the blankets, as if checking for something.

For nudity, Ben thinks. Which is just great.

“Ah,” Joe says, and his voice sounds a little rough. Ben will go to his grave pretending not to know why. “Good morning.”

“Morning,” Ben says back. He glances around the room for his clothes, but they’re all over the fucking place. He is going to lose every little shred of dignity he might’ve had left. At least, he thinks, there are a few different ways to handle this. His first thought is that maybe they could play this off: I was so _drunk_ last night I don’t remember _anything_ , that sort of deal.

Or, they could just avoid it altogether, go their separate ways, wait a few days for the air to clear and then pretend none of this ever happened.

The very last thing Ben wants to do is address it outright.

So of course Joe looks straight at him and says, “So… about last night...”

Ben clears his throat and tries to formulate an appropriate response, but he doesn’t have one. He has no idea how to go about this. He’s never exactly done this before. He thinks maybe he should start with an apology — or an excuse, maybe, and he’s about to make one up when Joe continues on, as if Ben weren’t currently deep in the throes of an early morning existential crisis, “...I mean, it was pretty good, right? ”

“Uh.” Ben licks his lips. That was not what he was expecting. “Not bad, yeah.”

Joe rolls his eyes at him. “Not bad?” he says skeptically. “Last night our movie won an Academy Award, and then I came back and gave you a blowjob that _deserved_ an Academy Award, and you have the gall to say that it was not _bad_?”

A slow grin uncurls across Ben’s face. He is suddenly much more sure of the situation. Because of course he is. Because it’s Joe. Because nothing could change that. Change them. “Like I said, not bad,” he confirms. “Why, d’you wanna see if we can do better?”

In a flash Joe’s climbing over top of him, the blankets pooling at their waists. There is not a single article of clothing between them. Ben rolls his hips up, just to see, and Joe smirks and captures his wrists with his hands. “Do you wanna know how I know last night wasn’t a big drunken mistake?”

“How?”

Joe leans down and presses a light kiss against the side of his mouth. Then he pulls back. “Because your morning breath is awful and I still wanna do this,” he says, and Ben laughs and tackles him against the mattress and thinks that, wherever they go from here, things are going to be just fine.

**Author's Note:**

> you can't tell me there wasn't SOME sort of celebratory sex after the oscars, right???


End file.
